a bystander's bouquet
by Nayuki-Bunny
Summary: They are forever the same: running in a straight line, in the same direction, reaching for an oblivious back. ;an unraveling, in sevenths.
1. first

_ first._

* * *

He hears her call his name quietly, somewhere off in the distance. Despite its low volume, her voice still manages to weave its way over and around the many bowed heads around them. It taps on his shoulder and tugs at his chin with gentle hands.

He turns around and she smiles, off in a corner of the classroom like a solitary star floating in its own galaxy. There is fabric on her lap and bright spools of thread on her desk.

He blinks and then he is next to her, watching her peer up at him expectantly. "Like this," he tells her, before she can ask, plucking the needle and thread from her cool palm.

He can feel her gaze on him, flitting between his hands and face. It's as though it is a heavy weight tied sloppily around his neck and wrists, anchoring him to the spot. He frowns, trying to focus on the fabric bunching in his leaden hands.

"Here," he finally tells her, handing back the materials. She reaches out, her skin brushing against his. His fingertips twitch.

"Thank you, Ishida-kun," she says, softly and sweetly. She's still looking up at him. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

He tastes salty wind in her words and nods shortly. Then he moves to another student and the world refocuses again.

* * *

Orihime Inoue is an odd girl, they say.

She makes strange foods and babbles nonsense about robots and aliens. She daydreams occasionally in class, with stardust and distant satellites for eyes. She's forever tripping on air from distracted, dancing steps. She's beautiful, in every sense of convention and eccentricity.

Her older brother is dead. She lives alone.

She likes to make conversation with strangers. She likes to sew. Sometimes, she likes to sit in companionable silence and whittle away the time without words.

"They say I'm an odd girl," she told him once, early on. She had beamed as though it was a rare compliment, but he took it as a disclaimer.

"It makes no difference to me, Inoue-san," he'd replied, and she'd turned at that, studying him with her wide, headlight eyes.

In truth, such gossip had never really meant much to him. Maybe it's because he's a bit odd, too.


	2. second

_ second._

* * *

She never was and never will be a warrior. He thinks of her as far better suited to dreams and dance.

"Sorry… I'm so useless," she'd told him once, her voice fluttering with the weight of want in empty streets.

(_sorry that I'm not enough- but you are enough- don't lie, it's alright-_)

Soul Society seems so long ago and far away now, but its residue still stains their footsteps. Kurosaki burns through power like flame burns through paper. He runs endlessly toward some impossible, unattainable goal. He runs with a breakneck speed that somehow balances him on the blade of a sword. Inoue-san follows closely behind, stubborn and single-minded.

He watches them with empty hands and wonders if this is what she'd felt like: left behind and lonely.

(It's times like these that he thinks that he knows them both so well. Better than they could know each other. Maybe. Probably.)

"She doesn't want to hurt anybody," he tells Sado-kun, the two of them sitting together on the rooftop. A few paces away, she is talking animatedly to Kurosaki. "But she still works so hard."

"That's what she does best," Sado-kun says, in that slow and quiet way of his. "She's always been special to people. They get their strength from her."

He sees Kurosaki's eyes soften into something warmer, his shoulders curving slightly inward—as though drawing around her. Hiding her away.

A breeze picks up slightly, sifting through her hair like sand. She smiles and color blooms in her cheeks like spring flowers.

"Yeah," is all he can think to reply, watching her pale hands fidget, and he misses Sado-kun's knowing glance.

* * *

"You're not honest with yourself," she whispers. "Why?"

He stares, for lack of something better to say. The library is deafeningly quiet. Her thoughtful gaze flickers then, and she inhales sharply with the beginnings of an apology.

"Neither are you."

She stills.

"I guess you're right," she laughs lowly. There is a pause before her head tilts forward, almost sleepily. He has the sudden urge to brush her hair back to better see her eyes.

"…Why did you ask?" he wants to know.

_Why do you care?_

She half-shrugs, biting her lip. "Ishida-kun is such a strong person, but… you don't let others in. You have such compassion, but it's like you're afraid to share it." She glances up at him. "It's… okay to let people see you, you know."

Something in his chest swells uncomfortably. His grip on his pencil tightens.

_Why do you care?_

Why does she think that he is more than bruised flesh and breakable bone? He is only a wisp of a legacy, only just, _only just_. He is no well of strength. He's barely a fighter.

He's not even a fighter. Not anymore. That too is gone, gone, lost, lost. He is no more than shadow and dust—fragile fragments. It's no secret to him or her or anyone else.

(_please don't treat me like teetering china-_)

He wants to scold her, to shake her thin shoulders and yell that the world doesn't work like her own: nobody pays kindness back, people will always leave, will always die, will always forget.

And he would always be weak for thinking otherwise, for exposing his flimsy human heart.

"It's not that simple_," _he wants to say, but she turns to him so that he stops thinking and stops breathing. It's as though the air is knocked out of him every time she faces him fully, and he doesn't know _why_.

Her face is open. There is nothing hidden in her expression.

"You always have something you believe in, Ishida-kun, and I've always admired that about you… So I want… you can trust me."

And then, just like that, he believes her implicitly.


	3. third

_third._

* * *

The corridors are teeming with shuffling students and whispered words.

"Arisawa-"

"-punched him-"

"-blood-"

"-he just took it-"

"-Inoue-"

"-is she really-?"

They all blend into sounds and wind rushing past his ears. Then there is nothing but the sagging silhouette of Kurosaki's back, alone in the hallway.

"What's going on?" he yells.

But it's as though Kurosaki can't hear him, too caught up in mumbles of broken promises and weakness instead. His hands are clenching and unclenching from tight fists and then, panic swelling in his throat, he thinks that Kurosaki is stupid, so very stupid. So brash and so blinded by his own bravery and warped sense of justice.

("It's not easy being the one who has to wait for others to be in pain," he remembers her saying, "just as it's not easy to be the one who gets hurt for everyone else.")

"Kurosaki. Tell me where she is," he grinds out, running to catch up.

Kurosaki still seems not to notice, but his right hand twitches, whole and healed. His breath catches and then he knows.

Kurosaki's gaze is heavy, looking through him and speaking with silent, dark words that stain darker ink under his eyes.

_She's gone_.

* * *

_Bring you back. We'll bring you back. Back. No matter what cost. No matter what. Bring you-_

_I'll bring you back._


	4. fourth

_fourth._

* * *

Through hellfire and back again. That is what it was.

She went and came back and that is all that matters to anyone.

But, if you stand close enough to feel, the air around him sizzles with something reawakened.

If you stand close enough to smell, her hair is singed and her heart is burnt at the corners. Tender, tender.

She jumps at small noises and dozes off in class. Sometimes she forgets to smile and stares into empty space instead.

(_She's fine, she's fine,_ something in him insists, and so it makes no sense why he's hell-bent on ignoring it)

He often catches Kurosaki watching her too, brows knit with worry. This makes something prickle deep in his stomach, but it gets pushed away when he realizes that Kurosaki is waiting for her to quiver into ash.

And so is he.

(_but you couldn't possibly see, you're not-_)

* * *

"People are beautiful, terrible things," she tells him. Her voice is like wind-chimes on the rooftop.

It's lunchtime and the others have yet to arrive. He wonders how to respond, but she's looking at him as though she can read all the thoughts in his head. Inexplicably, he thinks of the way her mouth spells out his name.

"Each person is capable of the worst and best of humanity," she continues. "We have both bad and good in us, Ishida-kun." Her hand drifts to rest over her heart. "That's why we must learn to accept others."

He is thinking of a silver moon and white sand, and scowls before he can stop himself. She's watching him expectantly. "Some people aren't worthy of acceptance," he mutters, ducking his head. "…Not if they hurt you."

(_Not if they take you away and drain the color from your cheeks, twist your mind, cut out your heart, fill you with despair_)

She looks thoughtful, calm even. He has the dangerous, irrational urge to seize her shoulders and shake her—see her crumble with confessions in the confines of his arms.

She blinks. "It happens, sometimes. When you want to protect something important. I've hurt people and people have hurt me." He bites back an indignant hiss. She doesn't seem to notice. "Sometimes acceptance is the only thing that lets them know that they're enough, that they're fine. So no matter, even if you're scared, even if you worry…" Her voice dips in volume. "…they should know."

In a flash of clarity, he sees a horned mask and black blade veiled in her irises. Suddenly his head feels light, like nothing makes sense at all.

"But what if they don't?" he manages to ask.

He sees her take the weight of his question on her tongue, tasting it and turning her answer round and round. Then she smiles a pretty smile, something foreign and unfamiliar that makes his heart thud deafeningly in his ears. It's a strained little grin, reminiscent of wilting grass and drooping daisies, but her answer is raindrops—a sun-shower that lingers on his skin long after he leaves.

"Then we try harder, Ishida-kun."

But she's gazing off into the distance with someone else's face in mind (_but it had always been someone else's, hadn't it?_), and something inside him wants to shatter.

* * *

She tries harder.

She tries harder and he pretends not to see, not to hear, not to _feel._

But why would he feel, it was only Inoue-san,_ but when is she ever only one thing, when did she suddenly melt into everything, everywhere, all the time in subtle reminders that only he seems to see, only him, so why can't she see him too- _


	5. fifth

_fifth._

* * *

Time and tide both do well to blunt sharp edges. He imagines them all rocked by ocean waves—lulled back into rooms with thick walls and picturesque views of the seashore. They walk and talk until he realizes that their sandy footprints have wandered back to a benign beginning.

All of theirs.

He thinks that, in a way, they drop pieces of themselves like one passes a baton. First her, then himself, and now Kurosaki. Kurosaki's pain is something that hurts the three equally, though he does his best to keep his hidden under creaky floorboards.

And yet it seems that nothing will ever make Kurosaki more lackluster of a star—nothing ever seems to dim the glow that sparks his eyes and heats his blood. It lights a flame under all of them (_lights her eyes with stardust and her smile with the moon_), and he sometimes wishes that Kurosaki _knew _what it was he did to other people.

He is thinking this, thinking of all the things he isn't and cannot be, as his blood slowly pools around him in the street.

And then it is mercifully black.

* * *

_It will always be the things like this that mark your blood and bone and being second, not first._

* * *

He awakens to the distant hum of whispered conversation. He bobs dazedly on the surface of consciousness and counts to three. A blink, and then his vision sharpens in time to catch a shadow shift from behind the curtain.

"…How are you?" she asks tentatively. Her voice is low and lilting in the stillness of the hospital.

He inhales slowly. The place smells of disinfectant and her shampoo. He wants to shift against the bed-sheets, but his arm hurts where the bandages hold his flesh together. It's a deep, pulsing pain that radiates from his shoulder to his hip.

"Ishida-kun?"

"…I've been better," he responds, not sure if he's made a joke or not. She's not sure either, and he can hear the sheepish smile ghosting over her lips. "You didn't have to take the trouble of coming," he continues, staring up at the ceiling tiles. His throat is dry. "I'm fine."

There is a pause, one that seems to widen into mountains and canyons between them. He imagines her nervous hands and parted lips.

"Of course I'd come," she murmurs finally. There is the sound of hair idly brushed behind an ear, and her voice dips. "...How could I not?"

He shuts his eyes and then it is easier to pretend, if only for a little while, that they're the only ones in the universe.


	6. sixth

_sixth._

* * *

"Do you ever wonder where you'll be and what you'll have done by the end?"

"The end of what?"

She doesn't meet his gaze. There is a pause, one that quickly fills with the sounds of clubroom chatter. Her needle stabs easily through the thin cloth.

"University."

He stares as she pulls a tighter stitch. It is times like these that make him wonder if she had always treated him like glass.

"…I'm always thinking about the end," he murmurs. Her fingers slip and he looks away. "But it holds you back if it's the only thing you make important."

"…I know that," she mumbles. Her thumb distractedly traces the curve of a spool. "It's just… There are so many things I want to do and see and be and… tell. What if I…" She inhales, drawing him closer. There are faded freckles dusted like cinnamon at the corners of her eyes. He blinks and then her breathy voice slips back into hearing range. "…What if there's always something in the way? What if I-"

He is learning the constellations and galaxies in the whorls of her irises when her brow smoothens and she leans back suddenly. "Ah, s-sorry, Ishida-kun!" she laughs, averting her eyes and rubbing at her neck. "I-I didn't, I'm just…"

But her voice is unfamiliar and distant in his ears, and then the bell rings and she is gone.

* * *

_how far are you willing to let her run?_

_how far will you run after her?_

* * *

Her name is withering on his tongue, but she's waiting, half-turned towards him. A shaft of forked light streaks across the sky, and he counts the beats between lightning and thunder.

"…You don't have to feel like you can't tell anyone anything," he says, the words stumbling and tumbling over themselves in his haste.

As soon as he's said them, he wonders if she'll get angry. Instead, she watches him with an unreadable expression, blinking only when a stray raindrop slips under the brim of her umbrella.

"I don't want to be a bother," she says finally, slowly. She beams at him then, like an afterthought. "There are more important things for people to worry about than my silly troubles."

He sees her eyes flicker briefly and imagines pressing her hand in his—feeling her thin, bird-like bones curl into his grasp.

Ahead, storm clouds rumble impatiently in their throats. His fists tighten.

He strides over to her purposefully, watching their proximity increase and her eyes widen. When he stops under her umbrella, she is looking up at him with something resembling amazement.

He wants to believe that, in this moment, she saw him for the first time: that he's the only one who wouldn't let her excuses go.

"You are important. All of you, everything," he murmurs fiercely. He isn't sure when her wrist ended up cradled against his chest, nor when her breathing quickened. He can only remember the quiet of a library and the dulled edge of memory. "…You can trust me," he tells her.

Her lips are close enough that he can hear them part, and then his ears fill with white noise.


	7. seventh, and last

_seventh, and last._

* * *

_You can trust me. I've always been here and I always will be_.

* * *

She is staring with wide, open eyes and he is staring back. Millennia and eons have etched their marks in dust on his waiting mouth, and he swears he feels gravity's grip loosen from his ankles.

Her fingers flutter lightly in his, like the beating of a butterfly's wing. Aside, his umbrella is dark against the ground.

"You can trust me," he repeats quietly, watching a raindrop kiss the curve of her cheek. It traces a slow line towards her lips.

When she leans into him, catching his free hand with hers, she tilts up on balanced ballerina toes and tips her umbrella back. Her whisper is warm against his ear.

"Thank you for being such a good friend to me."

* * *

They are forever the same: running in a straight line, in the same direction, reaching for an oblivious back. There are fleeting moments when you can see something in his eyes as he passes by, but it disappears like sunlight behind trees.

He brings her invisible roses every day, dropping them quietly on her desk with his greetings. They sit and wilt, one after the other, under her idle hands and wayward eyes. Every day, he watches them dry up. Untouched and unnoticed.

He wonders if he'll stop or if she'll see them first.

* * *

_{a bystander's bouquet}_

* * *

**A/N: one of the best things I think any writer can do is to challenge himself or herself by writing something outside of their comfort zone. having said so, this was incredibly difficult for me to write, as I am not a fan of this ship. still, I have put my all into this story and done my best to try and properly reflect each of the characters' perspectives. I hope that my efforts paid off and that you all had a good read; know that I enjoyed writing this :)**


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